


Rufus

by MorticianMax



Category: Herbert West - Reanimator - H. P. Lovecraft, LOVECRAFT H. P. - Works
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Animal Death, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Herb is dead but he doesn’t die in fic., Homoeroticism, M/M, Platonic Life Partners, Post-Canon, Two cats die but both die peacefully and neither is reanimated., We don’t get to hear much about anything other than the experiments so they COULD have had a cat, can be read as romantic or platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:47:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24678715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MorticianMax/pseuds/MorticianMax
Summary: The Narrator coming to terms with West’s death, and reminiscing on some of the nicer moments they shared, like when they’d gotten a kitten.And him struggling to reconcile who West was as a person with the horrible things he did.
Relationships: Narrator (Herbert West - Reanimator) & Herbert West, Narrator (Herbert West - Reanimator)/Herbert West
Kudos: 14





	Rufus

**Author's Note:**

> The movie had it right, letting them have a cat. So, I gave them a cat... And gave the Narrator some complicated feelings...

When recounting the tales of my companionship to the dreadful late Dr. Herbert West, I admittedly convey a series of events that would drive any grown man to flee in fear. Notable to excuse my lack of concern is the time span of these experimentations that I have emphasized, as well as the general, peaceful drudgery of our everyday life otherwise. Though shaken by the results of our ghastly endeavors, I was still enamored of my companion by the amiability of our life together. Still haunted by the horrific daemons we created, I am too haunted by the mundane moments of happiness that solidified my willingness to stay by his side.

One such event that brings bittersweet pangs whenever it creeps it’s way back into my mind began on a warm night in the summer of our fourth year together. West and I had been in our study, a smaller and more barren room than the study we’d later have in the house he— and perhaps eventually I too —would die in. I was nursing the tail-end of a cold, recovered enough to wander our house but still too sickly to be allowed back to work. I can recall being quite irate with him for insisting I was still unwell, whinging that I too was a doctor, and knew better than he how well I was. The first few complaints, he had ignored me, but when I had repeated my contention of my own health for what must’ve been my sixth time that day, West had turned to look at me, pale and cold blue eyes boring into me in an expression too neutral to be called outright displeasure, but recognizable as his own automaton approximation of annoyance. Afterwards, I had ceased my insistence of my own wellness.

As I sat curled in the study chair, I instead complained drowsily of how boring the house was when I was left alone in it. Intrigued, West had turned his attention to me with an inquisitive tilt of the head, a gesture I remarked reminded me of my childhood cat. I was granted an illusive chuckle from my companion. West bid me tell him about my pet, and I complied, feeling a swell of pride from having his complete interest and attention. It wasn’t as though he ignored me when I spoke usually, he simply had a tendency to get lost in his own thoughts often. I rambled on about the cat I’d had as a young boy.

It was a scruffy alley cat I’d discovered while playing outside and began slipping food too. Eventually, I dragged it home with me, begging to keep the poor thing, slightly surprised when they agreed as long as he hadn’t had an actual owner already. I’d gleefully asked around my neighborhood if anyone had been missing a cat, to which there was a resounding no. I was triumphant, and absolutely adored that cat. He was my faithful childhood companion, absurdly patient for having to deal with the constant prodding and excitement of a young boy. As a teen, he was still exceptionally well-behaved aside from the stray hairball or “gift” of a dead rat on the doorstep. He had unfortunately succumbed to old age only a year or two before I’d enrolled at Miskatonic.

Herbert’s head was still slightly tilted in curiosity, blond strands hanging like a stage curtain. It struck me that he was awfully feline himself, what with his more lithe frame, aloof nature, and tendency to drop off dead “presents”. I grimaced at the latter thought, deciding that voicing the comparison would likely earn me a wry frown. Instead, I’d inquired if he’d ever had a pet, which he’d laughed at— I felt another warm rush of pride through me at getting a second laugh out of him —and sardonically asked if any of his animal experiments counted. He had been grinning at me, the corners of pink mouth pulled ever so slightly upwards and eyes softened. With a glance at the clock on the wall, he rose from his seat to tell me the hour and escort me to bed. I protested that I was surely not so ill as to need assistance with walking, to which he rolled his eyes. The movement caught me off-guard— I laughed despite myself. Herbert seemed pleased with himself then, placing a hand around me to rest on my forearm and pull me forward.

I observed him as he guided me. The moonlight seeping in through the windows was all that lit our path, and its glow washed my companion in a spectral blue light. The few tinges of color he had— rose lips, yellow hair, blue eyes —were mellowed to shades of grays and blues, his hair silver and skin eerily snowy. The memory of him in the soft moonlight haunted me after his death, both due to how phantasmal he had appeared and how, when I’d looked at him bathed in lunar glow, the thought tore through me that he looked beautiful. I had jolted myself with my own mind then, freezing in place in a sense of shock. Herbert turned to me, the hand on my forearm moving ever so slightly to stroke me. The shadows framed his face then, and I could see the glints of light off of his eyes, his spectacles, and his lips which he must’ve wetted while I was enthralled in my story. He opened his mouth to speak, but I did not give him the chance, continuing towards my quarters as though nothing had happened. He followed, silent as well.

I’d forgotten our conversation on my late cat quite quickly after that, not too concerned with recalling when or if I’d divulged mundane details of my life to West. My sickness had subsided, and I was deemed not to be ill by Dr. Herbert West himself. Surprisingly to me, he had not forgotten our conversation, as a few days later he asked me if I’d felt alone when I was sick. I had already felt strangely abandoned whenever he had to leave for work, as given our statuses as the only practitioners in the small town, we had taken opposite hours, with only a few hours overlapping that we shared one another’s company. The experience of isolation was heightened when I had to stay home all day, despite West tending to me when he was available. I confessed this, and he gave me a nod as though a theory bouncing around his head had been proven correct. I thought nothing of it, chalking it up to West worrying about my wellbeing in his own odd way.

Three days after that, West returned home late. I recall having teased him about it, though I cannot recollect what I had said. My eyes fell on the small crate he was tenderly handling, brows furrowing as I caught a glimpse of bandaged fingers and arms from where they peeked out from his sleeves and below the box. I had started to comment on it when he held the box towards me wordlessly, to which I accepted it from him in further confusion. Any questions about the box or his injury were cut short by said container mewling at me pathetically. I gaped in surprise and denial, pulling off the loose lid to reveal a black kitten pacing within, giving me a loud, squeaky cry when it saw me staring. My eyes tilted back up to my companion, who was staring nervously at the crate. Still rather dumbstruck, I embarrassingly recall asking him if he’d gotten me a cat, as though I was not holding a rather whiny feline. He turned his head to the side, averting his eyes and scratching with bandaged fingers at his neck below his ear.

“You mentioned being here alone was unsettling. Given our odd hours, it seemed a favorable compromise.” He murmured, even quieter than his usual feathery tone.

I directed my gaze back down at the kitten, who had begun attempting to crawl out of the box. It was quite a small creature, and I easily scooped it up with one hand, the other setting aside the crate. The kitten stared at me incredulously, giving a loud shrill mewl in protest to my manhandling. I carefully set it on the ground to explore its new surroundings, kneeling down beside it. After the astonishment had set in and I’d spent quite a few minutes watching the creature curiously roam, triangular tail sticking up and bobbing with its movements, I rose to my feet to look at Herbert. Realization of his injuries struck me, and I couldn’t help the unsympathetic laugh that escaped me at the image conjured of the tiny animal clawing and biting at him as he tried to shove it into the container he’d handed me. A dusting of pink spread across his cheeks, thin brows creasing as a slight frown formed. I pulled him into an embrace, feeling his small form tense at the initial contact before relaxing and timorously wrapping his nigh skeletal arms around me in return.

The thought came to me that this must have been the second time in our life together that West and I had embraced. The first had come the tumultuous night of our first resurrection, when we were half-dead from fear at that horrific, demonic shriek that ripped through the night from the shed above us. I was curled up and shaking on the floor of West’s dingy dorm room, panic shooting through me. I could feel my body rolled more onto its side, and something being pulled over me. I had turned my head to see Herbert on the floor beside me, propping me up with his petite body and tugging the blanket from his bed around me. “You’re shocked,” he’d whispered, his typically even voice slightly wavering, “don’t worry.” One arm had wrapped around my shoulder to hold me up, the other draped across me, his hand placed gently atop my own. His chin was on my shoulder and his chest rested comfortably on my forearm, enough so that I could feel the thudding of his heart even from beneath the blanket. I let my head sink to the floor, the pressure of Herbert’s lithe form somewhat grounding, the frantic beating of his heart reassuring me that I was not alone in my terror. We had stayed in that embrace until I found myself ready to finally rise once again.

I was surprised when I came out of my reminiscing as to how I could have ever felt enveloped in West’s tiny form, for I could so easily wrap myself around him until my body was nearly swallowing him whole. Suddenly, West cursed with a jolt, yanking himself away from my arms to glare daggers at the kitten now clawing at his ankle. The cat only mewled in return, to which I gently retrieved it, commenting that it was likely hungry. It purred slightly as I pet it in my hand; I’m certain I must’ve had quite a stupid grin from its affection, but West’s icy gaze was on the animal, airing dangerously close to the look I’d come to recognize as him pondering what the unlucky recipient looked on the inside. Catching my eyes, West mumbled something about picking up food for the animal, his stare softening with a rare hint of guilt that I would never see again when it was truly needed. Still, I smiled at him, too grateful to make a comment.

The cat, who I had christened Rufus, stayed with us until the Great War, when I dejectedly handed him off to my parents for safe-keeping. Upon our return, he was far more prone to clinginess, something I felt guilt over and West seemed to find vaguely amusing if he had any thoughts at all on the matter. Upon his demise, a natural one of old age, I recall the dread that filled my chest over the likely scenario that my companion would recommend attempting our ghoulish practice upon him. Instead, Herbert had softly offered to assist in giving him a nice burial— he was hardly the sentimental type himself, yet had the cognizance of my persuasions to know I was —and I found myself gloomily lurking behind West as he attempted to make a small coffin out of left over boards of wood from when we’d built a shabby bookshelf. The end result was quite awful, but it had touched my heart regardless.

Despite the monster I have been slowly accepting that he became, I do still hold that he had some affections. Enough for me to bother with the animal at all, and, buried deeper than any of our unsuccessful experiments, enough for the creature himself, despite the pair’s apparent mutual tense tolerance. There had been a few nights when, in a bought of restlessness, I found myself ghosting through the halls only to see a dim flickering light in the study and Herbert sitting in his armchair, with Rufus curled upon his lap in a deep slumber. His frequent paranoid glances behind him always ensured he caught me staring, and he each time had the sheepish grin of a child with a hand caught in the cookie jar. It is this image of West— not the mad doctor fighting demonic corpses, but the delicate man with the light of the fire catching his hair and spectacles, sitting unmoving so as not to stir our cat —that still haunts me in a way both melancholic and bone-chilling.

**Author's Note:**

> I tried to emulate the same style as Lovecraft to the best of my ability. I’m getting the hang of it, I like to think.
> 
> In my opinion, the Narrator has a crush on Herb, if they aren’t actually together. I tried to leave it ambiguous, however, so it can be read as them just being close.
> 
> Please leave a Kudos if you liked it, as well as any comments you may have; I‘d appreciate the feedback!


End file.
